


Through Hell and Back Again

by glitteringconstellations



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood and Gore, Execution, Fake Character Death, Fake Kill Scare, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 01:49:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14945360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteringconstellations/pseuds/glitteringconstellations
Summary: “Don’t watch,” said Lance again, and again when Hunk didn’t comply. “Hunk, don’t watch—”They killed Lance. Theymurderedhim.And they made Hunk watch.





	Through Hell and Back Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IcyPanther](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcyPanther/gifts).



> Prompt from the [Bad Things Happen Bingo](badthingshappenbingo.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Prompt: fake kill scare with Hunk and Lance for the lovely, lovely **IcyPanther**. 
> 
> This, uh, might be the goriest thing I've ever written, so be warned. DON'T WORRY LANCE DIES BUT HE DOESN'T STAY DEAD, IF THE PROMPT WASN'T CLEAR. Also, blame E3 for this--it's largely inspired by the gameplay trailer for "The Last of Us 2."

They killed Lance. They _murdered_ him.

And they made Hunk watch. 

He could do nothing but weep and beg and scream until his throat ached, forced to kneel in mud at the edge of the clearing. They already made clear how it was they planned to carry out their task; the march through the dark, misted woods led them down a corridor of corpses, all swaying from the crooked boughs in varying states of decay.

Two of their captors—mercenaries for the Galra, and just as ruthless—seized Lance by the crook of either elbow and hoisted him atop two stacks of dented, bullet-pocked cans. Lance kept a strained smile as the noose was fit around his neck, the loose end tossed over a tree and held by two more men.

“Don’t be scared, Hunk,” Lance said. “We’re defenders of the universe, right? We’ve walked through the proverbial valley and we fear no evil, because we’re freaking _Paladins of Voltron_. We’ve been through hell and back again.” His voice was high and reedy, and Hunk suspected he only kept talking to distract himself from the fact that _holy shit he was about to die._

The torches held by two of the mercenaries cast long shadows on his face, and even from this distance Hunk could see the frightened tears shining in Lance’s eyes. He seemed so much smaller and frailer, especially stripped down to nothing but his flightsuit.

“Please don’t do this,” Hunk plead, turning to the leader instead of watching Lance’s eyes dance around, unsure of who or what to focus on. He struggled against his bindings, shoulders aching and wrists rubbed raw against the steel cuffs. “D-don’t. Please.” 

The leader grinned at him, all fangs and a twisted, perverted pleasure in their terror. In lieu of deigning Hunk’s plea with a reply, he whistled to his men at the rope. They whistled back and pulled it taut. Lance straightened with a gasp as they yanked with such force it forced him to his tiptoes. 

“Don’t!” Hunk screamed again. “D-don’t do it! Whatever you want from me, I’ll do it. I’ll t-tell you, just don’t hurt him, _please!_ ”

“How cute,” the leader sneered, and kicked out the stack from under Lance’s left foot. Lance cried out, and Hunk saw his arms jerk against his cuffs behind him, like he wanted to throw them out to balance himself. He teetered dangerously on his one tenuous remaining foothold. 

“NO!” Hunk wept. “No, no, nononononononono—” Bile threatened to rise up and Hunk willed it down, if only to continue to plead their case, to appeal to whatever shred of mercy these monsters had. 

“Look away, Hunk,” Lance rasped out. And oh, how Hunk wanted to. Hunk wanted to shut his eyes, wanted to shut his ears and if force of will alone could teleport them to safety, they’d both be back in the Castle slurping on milkshakes. 

But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t leave Lance to die looking into the eyes of his killers. 

“Don’t watch,” said Lance again, and again when Hunk didn’t comply. “Hunk, don’t watch—”

Two things happened, then:

The leader raised a clawed hand, that predatory grin never once leaving his face. He stepped forward until he was nearly flush against Lance’s chest, blocking his gaze from Hunk’s line of sight.

The next noises that came out of Lance’s mouth scarcely sounded human, as the leader simultaneously kicked out the last stack of cans and _plunged_ his claws into Lance’s stomach. All the air rushed out of Hunk at once, his pleas and sobs extinguished. 

Lance’s agonized, gasping screams rent the air as he was simultaneously strangled and impaled. He kicked and twisted fruitlessly, fighting for purchase, fighting for air. Blood splattered to the forest floor when the leader ripped his claw out with a sickening squelch, entrails and muscle clenched tightly in his fist. He plunged it in again, this time into Lance’s chest, and though it didn’t seem possible, Lance screamed even louder. 

This time when the leader brought his claw out, Lance’s heart came with it. 

Lance went abruptly silent, though feeble, choked gurgles still escaped him. His body swung, his innards spilling out of the cavernous wound in his gut, and his legs still spasmed. Blood dripped down in rivulets, the droplets ringing out against the otherwise stillness of the woods as they splattered into the pool below.

Hunk gasped for air like he was being strangled himself, tears streaming from wide, disbelieving eyes. Pitiful whimpers escaped him as his jaw shuddered and trembled. Lance’s lifeless eyes bore into him as he swayed, and yet Hunk could not look away.

Turning, the leader made his way over to where his men still forced Hunk to kneel, fangs glinting in the firelight. He squatted down before Hunk and held the heart up in front of his face. He smirked. 

Then he turned his hand over and let it fall from his fingers. It rolled in the dirt until it came to a stop, resting against Hunk’s knee. It was still warm.

Hunk lost it. 

He howled in heartbroken sorrow. There was no other way of describing it. He wailed and wept and _howled_ until he gagged, and then he was forcefully expelling the contents of his stomach down his front. If it weren’t for the hands on either shoulder holding him upright, he’d have collapsed in a heaving fit. 

Around him, the men cackled and jeered. “Don’t watch, Hunk!” one mocked, voice pitched up in a gross mimicry of Lance’s last words. “Don’t watch!” 

“Hunk!” cackled another. “Hunk! Hunk!” 

Hands came up on either side of his face and gripped him firmly. Hunk physically recoiled, choking on spittle and air. “D-Don’t!” He tried to force his way back, but met resistance in the form of an unmovable mercenary behind him. Finally, he clenched his eyes shut. 

The image of Lance’s eviscerated corpse was burned behind his eyelids.

“Hunk!” the voices still mocked. 

The hands slapped his cheeks. He thrashed against the hands, even as calloused fingertips pressed against his jaw.

“S-stop,” he whispered.

“ _Hunk_!”

Someone doused him with frigid water, and Hunk’s eyes flew open on a gasp. 

Gone was the clearing, illuminated by moonlight and cast into shadow by torchlight and stained with Lance’s blood. Gone were the mercenaries and their mocking jeers. Gone was Lance’s lifeless body, hanging limp from a tree. 

Instead, a dim cyan glow cast the room into a soft, almost ethereal light. Dimly, Hunk recognized he was still screaming, though the ragged cries were dwindling off into a staccato of hiccups and sobs. 

Hunk whimpered again, blinking his bleary eyes until the world came into focus. It was sideways; somewhere in the chaos, he must have collapsed, because he wasn’t kneeling any longer. Above him, a pair of glistening blue eyes peered down at him, a brow furrowed in deep concern. Hunk realized the hands on his face belonged to this blue-eyed person, and without thinking, he stopped struggling.

“Hey, he’s coming round!” the person called over their shoulder. The smacking—not smacking, he realized, just patting—stopped, giving way to thumbs stroking his cheeks. “Hunk, buddy, come back to me. That’s it. You’re safe now, you’re in the Castle.”

Hunk’s next breath shuddered past his lips. 

_Lance_.

Trembling— _unbound_ —hands reached up and found Lance’s face, warm and damp but _alive_ beneath his touch. Lance stilled. Hunk sobbed again, clutching Lance’s face harder. 

“You’re alive,” Hunk rasped. “You—th-they got us, Lance, h-how—“

“Not me, Hunk,” Lance murmured, concern morphing slightly into confusion. He never stopped stroking Hunk’s cheek. “Just you. We had to go bust you out. Wasn’t going to leave you in the Galra's hands a second longer.”

“Not Galra.” No, they weren’t Galra. Hunk wouldn’t be forgetting that any time soon—not the fangs, not the claws, none of it. “Not Galra. They… they ki—” He choked, tasting salt. He couldn’t bring himself to say it. 

“Whatever it was they gave him, it’s likely it was highly hallucinogenic,” a voice chimed in from somewhere behind Lance. Lance’s face screwed up in sorrow, his hands stilling on Hunk’s face. 

“They didn’t kill me, Hunk,” Lance finally said. Hunk slid his hands down from Lance’s face to his throat, pushed the high collar of the flightsuit down. There were no bruises there, no crushed windpipe. His fingers traced down the front of Lance’s flightsuit until he got to Lance’s chest, then pressed his palms flat against it. 

Solid, and whole.

“You’re okay,” Hunk breathed. More tears slipped down his cheeks, and Lance thumbed those away, too. 

“I’m more than okay,” Lance confirmed. "I'm right here." He was there, his heartbeat steady beneath Hunk’s hands. He was whole, and he was real, and he was _alive_. 

He was alive. 

Hunk’s fingers curled into Lance’s flightsuit and he wept.


End file.
